Seaworthy (3 page)

The first bio read like a personal ad, with details about eye color and zodiac sign. No thanks, I'm all set on that front, I thought. The second sounded like a backwoods, Rambo type of guy. Nope. I've fished with the likes of them. Not this time. The third one Jim referred to as “the Silver Fox” and noted that he had “been sober for two weeks.” Great, an old drunk. I'm not that desperate. I have a friend who trumps the Fox—out of rehab and straight for three months—but I'm not taking him offshore. Possibility number four was “Mr. Weeks.” Would I have to call him “Mister”? Too weird for me. The additional comment that Mr. Weeks had actually captained the
Seahawk
for a short while and might need an occasional reminder that he was no longer in charge sealed his fate. One boat plus two captains equals nightmare. This was beginning to resemble audition week for
American Idol.
It's one thing to accept opportunity and quite another to capitalize on it. The right crew would be essential in maximizing this opportunity. So much for Jim's suggestions.

The next call had to be a yes. Who's a sure thing?
Surething
! The name of Dave Hiltz's boat was an omen. Why hadn't Hiltzie come to mind first? Dave Hiltz was a friend, a fellow islander, and a fisherman. He'd been after me to take him swordfishing since I'd known him. I'd promised him many times that if and when I had an opportunity to make a trip to the Grand Banks, I would take him along. Dave was the epitome of squeaky clean. Boat owners like that. I figured that he would be home from hauling lobster traps by now, as it was late afternoon and he always started his days at first light. Hiltzie would make a good shipmate and a great crew member. And if he ended up going, he could fill the position of the token greenhorn. Normally the green guy had little or no time at sea and often had no fishing experience whatsoever. Dave Hiltz was a lifelong fisherman. He worked his own boat, fishing for lobster, halibut, and scallops, and had fished with others for shrimp down south. Because he had never caught a sword, he was technically green. Dave Hiltz is a nice man and one of my best friends. Notorious for his temper and tall tales, Hiltzie would be a colorful addition, I mused, as I dialed his number.

Whether his decision was totally situational (the poorest lobster season in his experience) or the fulfillment of a lifetime dream (Dave's grandfather had been a Grand Banks fisherman) mattered not. Dave Hiltz was on board with no question or hesitation and plenty of enthusiasm. It was a yes all the way. Then, minutes later, he called back with his wife, Debra, on the extension. The voice of reason wanted to know if Dave would make any money on this swordfishing voyage.

Ah, there it was, the dreaded money question. I said all the things that I had repeated so many times during my career. I promised nothing. I explained that we would be working on a share basis and that compensation would be commensurate with pounds of fish landed. Settlements were pretty standard, I explained. After the fish went to market, trip expenses—bait, fuel, grub, et cetera—were deducted from the gross, and the remainder would be split between the owner and the fishing crew and captain. While I was careful not to predict a gold rush, I was confident that I could still produce. Although I had not vocalized it, I knew that this could be one of the greatest comebacks in fishing history. Dave would be leaving his wife and their thirteen-year-old daughter, Abigail, for two months with no guarantee that he'd return with a cent—or that he'd return at all. I recall Debra making a comment about whaling, and I confessed that commercial fishing hadn't progressed far. Opportunity for a unique experience—for sure. Opportunity for financial gain—potentially.

The obvious risks inherent in commercial fishing—like those to life, limb, and livelihood—are concerns of mere mortals. Real fishermen risk other things that are less easily explained. In my present situation, the risks involved in returning to something I'd once felt so passionate about were many and not as tangible as fears for personal safety or pocketbook. I risked falling out of love with fishing itself. I'm good at catching fish. Is this why I like to do it? What if I were to suddenly realize that I did not enjoy the hunt? What if I were absolutely turned off by blood and guts? What if my heart didn't race with the tugging of a fish on the line? And, God forbid, what if I'd lost the ability to catch fish? My entire identity and self-definition were at stake. Disillusionment, should it occur, would hit hard. The half-full glass was not my style. Perhaps the same scenario could be seen as enlightenment. Either way I spun it, learning the truth was worth the risk, I concluded.

In spite of the financial risks, Debra seemed willing enough to let Dave go. And he seemed elated to be going. Escape? Maybe. I knew well the enticement of going to sea and forgetting about what is lying in wait back on solid land. The sea has an uncanny ability to swallow troubles (even if it spews up a few new ones to take their place). The problem is that your troubles are patient, and you do eventually have to come ashore. But at the moment, my troubles were few, and getting fewer, I realized as I dialed up my old fishing buddy Arthur Jost.

It was more of a courtesy call than an invitation to go fishing; I knew that Archie would be excited to hear the news of my upcoming adventure. He would be envious, for sure. But at sixty-six years old and somewhat overweight, Archie probably realized that his commercial-fishing days were now in the wake of his life. Besides, Archie always had so much going on with family and friends that he'd never be able to shake free. He owned and ran two businesses, selling hot tubs and fuel additives. Between marketing, selling, installing, servicing, and distributing his wares, Arch found time to be in the midst of a major house-construction project in the Bahamas. He and his wife, Marge, had moved from Montauk, New York, to Stuart, Florida, several years before and had just begun to enjoy a semiretired status. I knew Arch as a chronic workaholic who would never fully retire. When I visited, I literally chased him from garage to shop to warehouse to truck to backhoe to boat and always marveled at his energy and expertise in all things. There was nothing Archie couldn't do. It was always fun to talk boats and fish with him, because he walked the walk. My primary goal in placing a call to Archie was to receive a huge “Go, girl!” I knew that I would be hearing a lot of things to the contrary once word got out.

Archie answered my call with a cheerful voice that always made me glad I had dialed his number. I couldn't contain my excitement and just started blurting things out. Because I had no intention of inviting him to go fishing with me, I was shocked when he interrupted and informed me that he was making the trip and would bring his friend Tim Palmer along, too. “This will be great! I always wanted to go to the Grand Banks with you. You'll need a good engineer. You know I can fix anything. Timmy is a real good guy. You'll love having him aboard. I'll start getting some stuff together. I'll need an address to ship things to. This will be great.” I was hesitant to remind Arch that he was a grandfather. I remembered my conversation with Hiltzie's wife and fought the urge to ask Arch if I could speak with Marge. Marge would be more sensible, I reasoned.

As it turned out, Marge had no sense either. Twenty-four hours after the original call from Jim Budi, Archie had already shipped to the dock the first of several loads of engine-room supplies he wanted to be sure to have, and he and Tim had booked tickets to Boston. Archie was fully invested now, with his wife's consent. And the more I heard from Arch and Tim, the more I believed that this opportunity was of the golden kind.

Completing the crew would be Mike Machado, the one man I found acceptable from Jim Budi's list of recommendations. I'd met Machado in Puerto Rico years back. At that time he was working for Captain John Caldwell aboard the original
Eagle Eye.
John Caldwell had a reputation for running a tight ship as well as catching fish, so I assumed that Machado would be an ace. With a verbal voucher from Jim Budi on Machado's ability to clean fish, which was the hole in this crew in need of filling, I was satisfied that I had put together an all-star cast.

News of the upcoming trip spread and covered the island like blueberries in August. There was real electricity in the buzz—well-wishers had high hopes for our success and clung to the possibility of more island men getting similar opportunities in this very poor lobster year. I had the names and numbers of nearly every able body when I left the town dock and headed off with a “write when you find work” tone in the farewell. I recalled the apropos words of my friend, first captain, and fishing mentor Alden Leeman: “I want to make one more ripple before I'm done.” My optimism was saying “splash.”

The tingle of excited anticipation was not overshadowed by the old familiar burden of expectation. Greater risk always meant greater reward, I reminded myself as the last of the hand wavers disappeared in the wake of the mail boat that ferried Dave Hiltz and me away to the mainland, the first short leg of what promised to be a long voyage. Challenge was what had been missing in my life. I needed to be shocked, stunned, scared. I needed to react to emergency. I needed to fend off ever-looming disaster. I needed to fight the forces that converge at the center of the funnel. I needed to be daunted by a task bigger than getting a grasshopper out of my hair. I was aware that fulfilling these needs was an exercise in personal indulgence. And if I happened, in the course of meeting selfish goals, to succumb to the inherent physical danger, Sarai was my only real responsibility. She needed me. She didn't know it, but I did. Irresponsible? Selfish? Perhaps. But I needed to be offshore.

T
he time had come to throw the lines off the dock. I wondered if the tightness in my gut was the same nervous excitement I'd experienced so many times on sailing day through the years. Or was this something altogether different? I would know soon enough, I told myself as I put the engine in gear to spring the
Seahawk
away from the pier. The stern eased out to form a wedge of space between the rail of the boat and the dock. Satisfied that I could now slip away without even the faintest caress of pilings, I yelled down to Dave Hiltz to release the spring line, totally severing our last tie to solid land, like the cutting of an umbilical cord. I was full of the apprehension of independence and exhilarated by anticipation of the same. I had been wondering how this would feel. Now I knew.

Let's face it: There had to be some blowback from ten years of additional age and absence from the swordfishing industry that I had loved for so long and spent the last decade openly and vocally missing. I was struck by a new notion: that my proudly professed love affair with long-lining Grand Banks-style might have been a defense mechanism, love feigned in denial of the possibility that I had wasted nineteen precious years of my life chasing fish in far-away waters. This hazardous image crossed my mind as I nodded to Archie to loosen the stern line.

Archie, Tim, and Machado—who had been a no-show up until minutes before loosening lines—filled the work deck. The backs of these three XXXLs were impressive. “Ohio State,” they had already dubbed themselves, in reference to their combined weight totaling an entire offensive football line. Dave Hiltz joined them in facing the stern to wave last good-byes. At six feet tall and two hundred pounds, he looked like a shrimp. Dave's dark goatee added a slightly sinister air to what otherwise looked like it would be a fun-loving and good-natured group.

Tim was the first to give up on the stern and turn forward. His body was nothing short of awesome. Like a man and a half, Tim Palmer looked like a machine—square, mechanical, and built to work. His boyish face and grin, framed in Dennis the Menace-style brown hair, contradicted what stood from his chin down, in the best Photoshopped fashion. Freckles trickled across the bridge of his nose connecting tanned cheeks. At thirty-six, Tim was the baby of our new seagoing family.

If Tim was our newborn, then Archie was definitely the patriarch. Not that Arch was ancient, but sixty-six is relatively old for crewing aboard a Grand Banks trip even if you don't look your age. I suspected that Arch's blond hair may have had some chemical help in staying blond, but the brightness in his blue eyes was all natural. He had already become the caregiver of our group, counseling, lecturing when needed, and handing out Band-Aids. Because of his age, I had planned for Arch to have a role of light duty regarding deck work and to have him take responsibility for the cooking and extra night watches when we reached the fishing grounds so that the rest of us could get a bit more sleep. He turned and began coiling a dock line, then flashed a huge smile up toward the wheelhouse. Archie was truly thrilled to be part of this team. And I knew he would be a real asset. He's just one of those smart guys who you suspect retained all of his incidental education while having no interest in formal schooling. Any apprehension I had about Archie's age was quickly overshadowed by his ability and attitude. Age, like gender, is only a problem if it's allowed to be.